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Let's Party
The start of it all, the first time I ever attended a party was when I was 16 years old.
Most people who know me, whether casually or intimately are very surprised by that. Plainly put, I wasn't the person that I am now back then. Nor did I have any inkling that I would ever be the way I currently am. I was a loser.
I paid five dollars to get into said party, which took place at my friend Tom's house. That didn't really cover anything, as the raging "party" ended up consisting of six guys hanging out in a dingy basement. It was the kind of setting that slasher flicks begin with.
Before long, one of the guys, who easily looked like he was in his late twenties, decided that it would be a great idea for us all to get high. I had never had an experience with drugs before, and was in no mood to start in this setting. So I just looked on as he and two of the other guys puffed on a joint made of what he said was marijuana, but was probably something else.
Eventually, we worked our way out of the basement and into Tom's backyard. Minutes later, we cheered as one of his friends jumped off of the swing-set, and broke his arm in three places. He got up, took a sip of his beer, and shrugged.
We then walked to McDonald's, which was roughly a ten minute journey. Hammered, I ordered an insane amount of food, and proceeded to eat every morsel, sucking every last bit of salt from my greasy fingers.
Then I headed home, stumbling for the entire twenty minute excursion.
I drank two beers that night and staggered into the basement apartment that my family lived in at a little bit after midnight. As I walked mindlessly past the foldout couch that my parents slept on, I felt like I had gotten away with murder. I was young, drunk and untouchable.
"You're busted," my father said in a gravelly, sleepy voice. But he never mentioned it again.
I've gotten that "You're busted" line several times since, with the same result. He never says anything.
But that's my old man. As long as he knows that you know you didn't get away with anything, he sleeps soundly, and you wonder when that other shoe will finally drop.
Most people who know me, whether casually or intimately are very surprised by that. Plainly put, I wasn't the person that I am now back then. Nor did I have any inkling that I would ever be the way I currently am. I was a loser.
I paid five dollars to get into said party, which took place at my friend Tom's house. That didn't really cover anything, as the raging "party" ended up consisting of six guys hanging out in a dingy basement. It was the kind of setting that slasher flicks begin with.
Before long, one of the guys, who easily looked like he was in his late twenties, decided that it would be a great idea for us all to get high. I had never had an experience with drugs before, and was in no mood to start in this setting. So I just looked on as he and two of the other guys puffed on a joint made of what he said was marijuana, but was probably something else.
Eventually, we worked our way out of the basement and into Tom's backyard. Minutes later, we cheered as one of his friends jumped off of the swing-set, and broke his arm in three places. He got up, took a sip of his beer, and shrugged.
We then walked to McDonald's, which was roughly a ten minute journey. Hammered, I ordered an insane amount of food, and proceeded to eat every morsel, sucking every last bit of salt from my greasy fingers.
Then I headed home, stumbling for the entire twenty minute excursion.
I drank two beers that night and staggered into the basement apartment that my family lived in at a little bit after midnight. As I walked mindlessly past the foldout couch that my parents slept on, I felt like I had gotten away with murder. I was young, drunk and untouchable.
"You're busted," my father said in a gravelly, sleepy voice. But he never mentioned it again.
I've gotten that "You're busted" line several times since, with the same result. He never says anything.
But that's my old man. As long as he knows that you know you didn't get away with anything, he sleeps soundly, and you wonder when that other shoe will finally drop.
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© 2009 Created by David Wills on Ning. Create a Ning Network!
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